Subjective Narrative
by me malum
Summary: History tells of four founders, who would each weep to see how their legacy survived.


Because I love screwing with perceptions of canon, and the founders were ripe for exploitation.

**Disclaimer**- I wish.

Enjoi.

* * *

Salazar cared very little about magical bloodlines. Of his trusted companions, a muggle was one of the most adept potions brewers he had ever seen (just mixing and fixing ingredients; there is little magic in that, and anyone who tries to convince you otherwise is either a liar or a fool).

His bloodline was treasured for the nobility, and not the magic, of it. He was to marry a King's daughter from Wessex, and he cared not one whit that she had not one trace of magic in her veins. What he cared about was that his sons would not be bastards, and his wife not a plebeian.

Godric didn't understand this. He cared not where the bloodlines came from; he went so far as to offer swordsmanship lessons to the common boys so they could better answer a duel of honour when their uncouth ways offended their well-bred classmates. Salazar couldn't abide it; more often than not, it was his boys Godric's ended up fighting. And Godric was a seasoned fighter. Godric's way of fighting was akin to a windstorm on a battlefield, all edges and force, and never giving any hint when he would do something unexpected and underhanded to gain an advantage. Salazar's boys, trained in the art of fencing with its rules and regulations, would never stoop to such dirty tactics.

Salazar's boys, well trained and honourable, were losing more and more often, and until he managed to instill in them an appreciation for how to word a challenge properly and a sense of self preservation besides, that would not change.

* * *

Godric saw his first battle when he was five. He fought his first skirmish when he was eleven. He killed his first opponent at thirteen, and cast his first spell at seventeen. He'd never been able to rely on his magic, but a sword and a good man behind him- they were things he could count on.

He was the bastard son of a lesser eastern warlord. His father was a hot-tempered warrior who lacked the political acumen to gain any further status, and his mother was a bitter whore who rued the day she bore him for the disfigurement that meant she never worked a high-class (high-paying) client again.

Despite his noble heritage, he grew up in squalor and saw the good in men that came from experience, not privileges. He learned to fight in back streets and taught younger orphans how to duck and dodge and when all else failed, how to fight back against stronger, armed opponents. His methods weren't pretty or legal. Godric, and the orphans he taught, didn't care.

His first spell opened a new world to him- a world of mystery and quests and travels that brought him to like minded people. He helped found a school with some of them, and Godric promised himself he'd never judge someone by their origins, like so many had him. He gave them the tools to fight back when society wouldn't agree with them.

Salazar never understood this. Many years into their friendship, Godric received a letter from the eastern coast, saying he was his deceased father's closest surviving blood, and was needed to take the throne.

Godric had laughed, thrown the letter in the fire and changed his house's name from Essex, to Gryffindor. His mother's name.

She was a bitter whore, but even as she hated him she'd never disowned him. That sense of family counted more than every grace and air that Salazar employed ever could.

* * *

The castle was built on Rowena's husband's land. Now, technically, her land. Because he had loved her, and he'd been a mad but brilliant man who'd ensured that no law in Christendom could take it from her after he died. Everything he owned had gone to her.

Their sons were furious, of course. But they inherited their father's intelligence, and knew nothing could be done about it. If she were to die now, unwed, everything that was hers would go to her father and they would only ensure that there would be no chance of ever recovering what should have been _their_ inheritance.

She had acres of land she wouldn't use (Rowena was a minor Lady and proud of it; she would never stoop to outside activities that would roughen and tan her milky skin). She had houses from her husband's Ravenclaw line that she'd never visited. To placate her sons, she gave them one each and a paltry allowance that would keep them for a year. All knew they would be on their own thereafter.

She had libraries full of books she could read (her husband had taught her) but she'd never bothered to do so. She had her husband's papers, which she decided in an unexpected fit of loyalty to have published for him posthumously in Hogsmeade.

She never expected anything to come of it. But then two travellers came, and spoke of dreams and schools and a centre for learning, incorporating the book's revolutionary ward-working to make it a safe haven for children all over the country.

Rowena had lots of things she would never use, and no need to deny them. Construction started mere days later.

When she found more of her husband's notes, she painstakingly copied them in her neat, lady's handwriting (much like she'd done for the originals- she'd loved her husband, but his writing had been _atrocious_) and passed them on to the two travellers, now masters and teachers of magic. They looked at her in awe, and asked her to let them know immediately if she thought of anything else. Slightly confused, but also thinking of any other possible hiding spots her husband had for his work, she nodded in acquiescence and left them to it.

* * *

Helga came to Hogwarts with a sword in her hand and murder in her eyes. She did not introduce herself to the founders until she'd tracked down her unfaithful husband and killed him with his own sword.

Her magic led her into the castle, past the garish furnishings and suits of armour polished to a high shine. She stopped in front of a pair of great doors, willing them to open.

They opened.

Helga was a skilled witch, for all she rarely used her talents to their fullest. Magic made things so easy; she preferred the satisfaction after a long afternoon of hard work. Her common roots were clear, but not, she thought, of any importance.

And at the long table was the proof that she'd been wrong. Seated with a strongly built man on his left and a tittering fool of a girl on his right, the most elegant man she'd ever laid eyes on demanded (and there was no other word for his inquiry) to know what she was doing, and how she'd managed to open the doors.

She snorted and ignored him. He was not her quarry.

Five places from him, another man was looking nervously around for another exit. He did not find one before she attacked, and with him defenceless, her victory was certain. She cleaned the bloody sword with her skirt, and only then did she turn and introduce herself to the elegant man and his companions.

They took her in, clothed and fed her when it became clear she had nowhere else to go. In return, she taught what little she knew to those who asked- not incantation and outcome like her fellows, but how will and desire, _intent_, was the greatest magic they could ever harness. Eventually, she became one of the group, and the four split leadership of the school between them.

Helga was proud of her magic. She rarely cast a spell, but she used it as she willed, and it obeyed her. Anyone who thought her ignorant was swiftly reminded of her infamous entrance to the school, and fell silent.

Helga was proud of her reputation, and the reactions it instilled in her students. Unofficially, she was considered the most powerful of the four leaders, the one people were most afraid of disobeying.

She enjoyed her reputation with a cruel smile for anyone that asked how she gained it.

* * *

History tells of four founders who each valued one thing above all else in their students: honour, bravery, intelligence and persistence. History forgot the more valuable lesson of subjective narrative, and the secrets that faded from living memory.

Each founder would weep to see how their legacy survived, and that is the only truth left.


End file.
